


ave color vini clari

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Confessional Sex, First Kiss, I Never Finished Confirmation Classes So I'm Sure There Are Mistakes RIP, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Hail, clear color of wine!Hail, flavor without equal!And your deeming power to make us drunk!O so pleasing in color!O so fragrant in odor!O so tasty in the mouth, sweetly bonding with the tongue!(Ciel and Sebastian have a little too much fun involving wine and confessional booths.)
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	ave color vini clari

_Ave, color vini clari! Ave, sapor sine pari! Tua nos inebriari digneris potentia!_

Ciel’s first kiss is dense with the kind of silence that only fills morgues.

At Sebastian’s feet, Father Clement’s life pools beneath him, corrupting the creamy ivory of his robes. The wound at his neck grins back with each staggered breath, the translucence of his trachea nestled among the tendons and gore like a cheeky tongue. 

Ciel is dutifully removed from such filth, nestled on the altar on his knees, small immaculate hands clenching the filthy lapels of Sebastian’s tailcoat. 

Bloody hands caress his jaw, devoid of the talons he had watched tear into the Father’s throat like paper-mache; the devil’s hands are still hot and slick, still fragrant with copper and heme. Remembering their violence makes the boy tremble, makes a different kind of luscious violence surge between his thighs. Before he can stop himself he takes a digit into his mouth the next time it passes his lips, eyelids fluttering shut as the strange array of flavors hits him all at once.

Salt. Brimstone. A primal kind of richness. 

“Young master?” 

A flare of impishness overtakes him, and he laps at the digit with a tiny smile. “Yes?”

“Shall I clean them first?”

“I believe I’ve already relieved you of that duty,” Ciel murmurs, suckling at Sebastian’s fingers as though savoring a treat. Perhaps it’s less due to the blood and moreso the prenatural sweetness of the butler’s flesh, he muses. 

“How thoughtful of you.” The fingers in his mouth tease his tongue, withdrawing for just a moment before pressing inward once more; Ciel’s cheeks hollow, tongue laving greedily around the perverse lacquer on the devil’s fingers.

“You’ll spoil your appetite if you feast too well before supper,” Sebastian chides, withdrawing his hand, and Ciel is surprised at how strongly the emptiness in his mouth rankles. 

“Then spoil me.” Pinkish lips, glistening with spit, set in an approximation of a pout.

“My lord?”

“I’m parched. I’d like a drink before we leave,” he demands, voice airy with feigned indifference while his eyes linger on the goblet abandoned mid-Mass. The contents within glimmer like rubies within the flickering candlelight. 

“It would be unsightly for me to provide you a drink from another man’s cup,” Sebastian says, even as his smile widens.

“Quite right. You’ll have to find a more suitable vessel.”

Sebastian picks up the goblet, savoring the wine’s aroma before draining the cup, leaning close to offer the requested succor.

Sebastian’s mouth is precise and dispassionate, parting his master’s lips just enough to pass the wine between them — though the hand nestled beneath Ciel’s jaw, tiling his head back, strokes curiously. Ciel drinks dutifully; the tang of the wine is startling but far from unpleasant. 

The wine is gone, but Sebastian’s lips are still sweet, and the heat of the wine has settled into something that lingers in his belly. He sups on the after taste, learning the shape and peculiarities of his butler’s mouth; even without the lure of wine, the friction and sensuality are pleasure enough.

The devil’s lips shift, deepening the kiss — not enough for impropriety, but the little master’s heart still stutters, his breath coming out as a quiet moan against Sebastian’s greedy mouth, hands tugging at his lapels as if to draw him closer.

_Little Master, do you mean to devour me whole?_

Ciel feels more than hears a low rumble of quiet laughter, barely audible over the frantic thud of a racing heart, the moist slide of lips against lips against the little lord’s teeth. One of Sebastian’s fangs nicks Ciel’s tongue, clumsy and overeager to claim; he can feel the sudden rigidity in the devil’s body, the sharp intake of breath and delicious purr that follows. Sebastian’s hands are at his shoulders, separating their bodies, their gasping mouths in a way that brooks no room for argument; though outwardly composed, there’s little a devil can do to mask the way bloodlust stains their irides.

Ciel’s first kiss ends much the same way it began: a frisson of violence and the taste of blood sweet on his lips. 

* * *

_O quam placens in colore, o quam fragrans in odore, o quam sapidum in ore, dulce linguis vinculum!_

The Earl, like most his age, squirms in discomfort while he kneels, especially during something as revealing as confession. He suspects the reason for his restlessness varies significantly, but bites his tongue when the priest inquires as to his discomfort. Though their faces are mutually obscured by the privacy screen, he can tell the priest is kind; his tone is soft and devoid of the condescension most would afford someone as young as he.

“Young man, please rest assured that the only ones who can hear are you, myself, and the Lord who welcomes your confession.”

“O-of course,” he lies. 

It’s better for the priest to think that theirs is a holy trinity. Ciel doubts the priest will suffer the company of a devil within the church, least of all the one kneeling behind him, who has taken it upon himself to give the Earl something for which to offer contrition.

“What have you come to discuss, little one?”

“I—” he struggles to think of a sin appropriate for a boy. “Sometimes my mind wanders,” he stalls, goosebumps peppering his skin as Sebastian quietly unbuckles his trousers, sliding them downward, exposing his bare rump.

“Curiosity isn’t a sin, but I suspect what concerns you is the destination that wandering leads you.”

“Y-yes. God commands… p-purity,” he stammers, biting his lip as firm, eager hands knead his flesh, pausing to collect and sample the nectar dripping from his cock dangling fruitlessly between his thighs. Behind him, he can hear the lewd slickness of Sebastian’s tongue lapping at his fingers, tasting the Earl’s lust.

“That he does,” the priest says; the warmth in his tone suggests a smile. “Do you know why?”

“God is purity; we are made in His image. It would be an insult to sully His creation.” Ciel clenches his fists, soft gasp quickly masked as a thoughtful sigh; he can feel the heat of the butler’s breath as a damp fingers circle sensitive, perverse flesh. 

“Not quite. It is so we are better able to focus on Him, to see the clarity of His word amidst the clutter of the secular and the demonic.”

“The demonic?” He suppresses a small laugh. The Lord does not seem take offense to demonic  _clutter_ within His hallowed halls, caring less for those who wear tailcoats while their tongues are nestled in a boy’s arse.

“Yes, child. The Devil knows the weakness of our hearts; purity allows us to hear the Lord’s voice more clearly, so that we don’t become confused.”

“I see,” he hums quietly as a wicked tongue licks at him, as greedy lips suck and tease. 

“Do you?”

Ciel grits his teeth, silently cursing Sebastian as he feels the butler’s tongue flick against his hole, prodding just enough to make his whole body flare with heat. “Yes, Father.” 

“Very good,” he says. He sounds so sincere, so genuinely pleased, that it makes a small pang of guilt blossom in Ciel’s chest. “Let us say the Act of Contrition.”

“ _Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet…_ ” Ciel intones quietly. Behind him, he can feel Sebastian mouth and lick the words mockingly against his overheated flesh, thrusting his tongue deeper inside the unforgiving tightness of the Earl’s arse each time he addresses their spurned God directly. Petty, perhaps, but it does nothing but stoke the insistent arousal making his toes curl. To play at contrition while pleasured by an irreverent devil’s mouth is a sin he doubts even the good father would find sufficient penance to offer.

If the father notices anything amiss about the Earl’s labored breathing, he’s polite enough to let it pass; a small grin forms on Ciel’s lips as he realized that the foolish priest likely assumes he’s simply overwhelmed by the depth of his shame, or perhaps by the cruelty of the Christ’s passion rather than Sebastian’s. The priest listens to the boy’s keening prayer patiently until the final words are uttered as a broken moan and his contrition is offered, pearlescent and defiant, against the walls of the confessional booth.

“… _de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and constructive critique are always welcomed!
> 
> In case you're curious:  
> \- The title of this ficlet is the name of the song with which I took liberties with the lyrics.  
> \- The Latin Ciel recites is the Act of Contrition.


End file.
